


The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known (In Bed)

by Sizzle_It_Up_With_Punka



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Blindfolds, Exhibitionist roleplay, F/M, Local Man Adores His Wife, Local Woman Adores Her Husband, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Strength Kink, Trans Duck Newton, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sizzle_It_Up_With_Punka/pseuds/Sizzle_It_Up_With_Punka
Summary: Minerva likes bragging about her husband. Duck likes being shown off. Seems like a pretty easy setup when you put it like that.
Relationships: Minerva/Duck Newton
Comments: 11
Kudos: 154





	The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known (In Bed)

**Author's Note:**

> Note: this fic features a trans male character being penetrated vaginally, and mention of top surgery scars. "Dick", "cock", and "hole" are used to refer to trans male genitalia. 
> 
> Thanks to the Ducknerva Discord for being essentially responsible for this. Double thanks to Rhinocio for beta reading!

There's pros and cons to being married. On the one hand you've always got somebody to back you up, to laugh at your dumb jokes, somebody who knows you well enough to call you on your bullshit and who helps make sure you're taking care of yourself even on those days when you're so turned around you don't know what "taking care of yourself" looks like.

On the other hand, though? When you get to the point someone knows you like that, you can't hide a goddamn thing from them. That's doubly true for Duck, for whom hiding things from people has always been more of a nebulous concept that an actual practice.

Case in point? Minerva absolutely 100% notices when Duck's mind wanders off into not-safe-for-work territory while he's working. She's kind enough and canny enough never to call him on it in front of other people, but that definitely doesn't mean she won't bring it up when it's just the two of them together later on.

Like today, for example, when she waits until he's got his feet up and his guard down before she drops into her favorite chair, crosses one leg over the other, and says placidly "You were distracted when I visited you during this afternoon's labors, Wayne Newton."

Duck damn near drops his sudoku book. Well, shit, he's been made. Again. “Mmm hmm.” He says, feigning intense interest in a puzzle he already solved yesterday. Not that he minds Minerva knowing what he was thinking about today, exactly, it’s just . . . well. It’s just that admitting to some things involves the effort of shoving through his natural tendency towards embarrassment, and his natural tendency towards embarrassment is thick enough to need a goddamned machete to get past. 

Minerva knows that, knows him well enough by now to be able to tell the difference between “Duck needs some prodding to get past his blush reflex” and “Duck wants to drop the fuckin’ subject” from the tone of the response, so she leans in a bit, propping her chin in one six-fingered hand. “You were especially distracted when I was extolling your virtues as a forester to the park visitors.”

Duck coughs. He can feel the unmistakable heat of a blush climbing past the collar of his work shirt. “Sure was.” He flips the page to the next unfilled puzzle, stares at it for a second and then tosses the book over the back of the couch. There’s literally no reason to fight this, Minerva is the original definition of unstoppable force. 

His gorgeous, beloved, _absolutely terrible_ wife raises her eyebrows. “And would you like to tell me why that would be so, Wayne Newton?”

Duck gets to his feet and shoves a hand through his hair. It’s getting longer than he used to keep it, and he should maybe cut it for the sake of the USFS uniform code, except . . . well, except sometimes Minerva gets her hands in it and ho, boy, that's all she wrote about that. 

“Alright.” He says finally. “Alright, so. I’m, uh. Y’know. Maybe pretty into it when ya talk me up in front of people?” 

One corner of Minerva’s beautiful mouth curves up in a languid smile. “Yes, beloved. This had not escaped my notice.” 

“Uh-huh, I mean, yeah, not much does, so.” He clears his throat and fixes his eyes on a nondescript spot in the middle distance. It’s impossible to pretend his _entire face_ isn’t flushed bright red at this point, and not for the first time he wonders how Minerva manages not to look at him like the idiot he feels like when he gets this way. How she keeps her expression steady and gentle and focused, makes him feel not coddled but _listened to_ , even when it takes him twice the time it’d take a normal person just to get a goddamned thought out there. 

“So, uh. After that. What I was thinkin’ about was. Uh. I was hopin’ we could maybe. Hm. Bring that up, you know, in a bedroom type situation?”

“Oh,” Minerva’s head tilts slowly to one side, and her expression stays mostly placid except for the heat that kindles in her blue, blue eyes. “I see.” 

Duck lets out the breath he was unintentionally holding in a loud, sudden rush. “Not with an actual audience, I mean, I think that’s probably kinda way too much?” He says quickly, and he knows he sounds like he’s trying to back out of what he just admitted (well, kind of sort of admitted?) but he’s definitely not. He just. Wants to be sure she doesn’t get the wrong impression? If that’s a thing? “But, you know. It’s a -- it’s a fantasy. Of mine.”

Minerva rises with fluid grace and steps across the space between them and cups his (burning, crimson) face in both hands like she is holding a precious thing, keeping it from tumbling off an edge and being damaged. 

“You would like to playact this scenario with just the two of us present?” She says, cutting right to the heart of the thing like she does. 

Duck’s chest unclenches itself and he can practically feel his body relax and soften into her touch. She doesn’t think it’s stupid or offputting. He didn’t really think she would, except apparently some inner anxious corner of his mind definitely did think that because he’s relieved that it isn’t the case. God, his brain’s a bastard sometimes. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be . . . I’d be real into that. If you’re good.” 

Minerva’s smile is warm and sly and does _things_ to his insides, and she leans down and kisses him slow and sweet, teeth catching at his bottom lip as she pulls away. 

“Wayne Newton,” She says sincerely, “I am most assuredly _good_ with that idea.” 

***

They talk about it. Mostly Duck talks (stumbles) and Minerva listens and nods and makes suggestions or asks him to clarify. She’s the one who suggests the blindfold, to help him focus on the fantasy. She doesn’t say “To help him feel less ridiculous playing pretend”, which he’s grateful for. It’s one thing to let your imagination run off with you when you’re going solo, it’s another to try it with Minerva there, and Duck is nothing if not prone to feeling ridiculous when he’s trying something new. 

Duck's the one who suggests they make a date for it. Not that he's not good with spontaneity in a bedroom sense, but this particular plan is the kind of thing he’d like to be able to know is coming ahead of time. That’s part of the attraction of it, the anticipation. Of course, that means they can’t go for it on a weeknight, because he'll have it on his mind all goddamned day, and Juno'll notice (because she's Juno) and then she'll ask about it (because, again, she's Juno) and Duck'll get caught in some embarrassingly quarter-baked attempt at an excuse, and then he'll _die of fuckin' shame_ before Minerva gets the chance to screw him senseless while he gets off on the idea of people watching it.

So. Saturday night it is.

As predicted he has a hard time focusing during the day, which is fine because it’s just a regular Saturday. Minerva gets him up early to join her for a run as usual, and afterwards they come home and shower and lounge around the cabin in their comfy-weekend clothes. Jake got Minerva a sweatshirt that says _I’d flex but I like this shirt_ for Christmas. Duck’s equivalent gift shows a raccoon lifting weights with the slogan _I work out so I can eat garbage_. Minerva thinks that one’s hilarious, and Duck . . . well, Duck definitely doesn’t know how it keeps ending up shoved way back in the closet with his worn-out uniform shirts and the single badly-fitting suit he owns. It’s absolutely a mystery. 

The day goes slow, lazy. Nice. The kind of day he used to wish his whole life was made of, and the kind he knows Minerva never expected to survive long enough to enjoy. His guts are all butterflies, of course, and every time he looks up at Minerva she meets the look with a _look_ that makes him feel tingly and keyed-up, like he’s standing right in front of an oncoming blow and doing nothing to block it or dodge. But, y’know. In a sexy way, not a he’s-about-to-get-his-ass-kicked way. Which makes it a hell of a lot more enjoyable, obviously. 

They get takeout for dinner, noodles from Kepler's only Chinese place. Duck never did get the hang of chopsticks, but Minerva’s culture used similar utensils -- long and thin with flattened, slightly curving ends -- for just about everything they ate. Duck took the descriptions and a bad attempt at a sketch to Mama and had her make a few sets as a housewarming gift from him to Minerva when they moved into the cabin. Now Minerva uses them for most meals, and Duck occasionally muddles his way through like he's doing tonight. He'd probably be better at it if he had the right number of fingers, but Minerva doesn't hold his weird alien hands against him. 

Once they get the leftovers squared away and the utensils washed and dried, Minerva grins deviously and hooks her arm around Duck's waist, pulling him into a long slow kiss. "Well, my love," she says, cupping his cheek, "Can I interest you in some dessert?"

Duck makes a noise that's halfway fond and halfway exasperated, leaning up to kiss her again. "Y'can't just steal my best lines like that, honey," he says, grinning. Trying to make his voice sound like he hasn't been thinking about this all day. He doesn't remotely succeed.

"As your spouse," Minerva says smugly, "I consider that the best lines are, as they say, _communal property_." She laces her fingers into his and leads him towards the bedroom, and Duck of course follows her without hesitation, eager to be led.

She lets him get her most of the way undressed, intersperses the actions with lots of kissing and lots of running her fingers through his hair (and yeah, fuck it, he's never going back to regulation length, the Secretary of Agriculture can take it up with him personally if the USFS has a problem with it). She stops him when she's standing in just her underthings. Minerva kisses his cheeks, his forehead, the top of his head, and then she steps away after planting her hand right over his sternum in a gesture that obviously means _stay_.

She catches up a silky scarf from the top of her side of the dresser and steps behind him, lowers her head to murmur in his ear as she drapes the midnight-blue fabric over his eyes and draws it tight. "I am going to allow everyone to see how beautiful your body is, husband." She says, resting her hands on his shoulders and pressing herself against the line of his back. 

Duck takes a couple of deep big breaths. His whole body's jumping with anticipation and he can feel a flush creeping its way up his neck towards his ears. Okay then, here they go.

He imagines a group of people sitting gathered around, the back wall of his and Minerva's bedroom replaced with an amorphous space full of seats where a shifting group of faceless folks fidget and murmur under their breath as they watch the two of them. Watch _him_.

There’s a little bit of him that feels ridiculous, but Duck’s gotten pretty damn far in this life by pushing ahead through feeling ridiculous and he does that now, leaning back against Minerva and letting himself drop into what he's imagining. She runs her hands down his arms, clasps his wrists for a moment in her wide strong fingers, then shifts her grip to his hips and traces her way up his sides and chest. She undoes the buttons of his flannel shirt one at a time slowly, works her way down until the garment drops open and Duck feels the air brush his bare skin underneath.

“Observe, all,” Minerva says in what he thinks of as her rallying-cry voice, though she keeps the volume low enough to still be intimate. “Does he not have a most pleasing warrior’s physique?”

She draws the tips of her fingers along the curves of his chest and belly like she is demonstrating, showing him off, before she peels the shirt off and lets it fall to the floor. Duck practically melts against her, breath quickening. God, she really does know how to play him like a fiddle, every spot where her touch will make him sigh and shudder and _want_.

"You have such powerful arms." Minerva draws her blunt fingernails lightly over the skin of his biceps, leaving goosebumps in her wake. "And yet the delicacy of your hands is unparalleled." 

She wraps her fingers around his wrist, lifts his hand up so she can kiss his knuckles one by one. "They are a work of art. The hands of a warrior poet."

That should sound dumb as hell, but it doesn't because it's _her_ , and Duck leans his head back against her shoulder, thinking about how people look at him when she says that kind of thing about him. Surprised, usually. Incredulous. Intrigued, because that's the thing about her, she knows how to hook you. She's so _much_ that it's magnetic -- and by extension she makes people look at him like he is, too, like whatever she sees in him is really there. 

It makes him feel hot and cold all over, getting those looks. Overexposed as a raw nerve, too bare to be endured. It's intimate and powerful and _good god almighty_ does it turn him on.

Minerva runs her hand down the arc of his spine, presses her fingertips into the soft curve of flesh just above his hip. "Your body is so wonderful. So warm and fine."

Duck groans a little and turns around, nuzzles against her collarbone until he finds the spot where shoulder meets arm and presses his open mouth to the hollow of skin, tracing it with his tongue, sucking gently. Minerva makes a gorgeous goddamned sound and cards her fingers through his hair.

"So eager." She says approvingly. "You love to please me, don't you, my chosen one?"

"Hell yeah I do." Duck grins against the skin of her shoulder, sliding his palms along her sides and resting them at the small of her back.

She laughs. God, he loves her laugh, mellow and warm like low-pitched music. Minerva cups his chin in her hand, tips his face up to hers for a kiss that starts sweet and light but turns deep and hot and demanding by the time she pulls away.

"I think these people deserve a demonstration." She purrs, and look at that, Duck Newton is _fucking deceased_. Been a good run everybody, tip your waitstaff on the way out the door.

She rests her hands on his shoulders and guides him forward until they hit the bed, and then she lays back and tugs him down with her, kissing him again before she scoots back and sits up against the headboard. He follows her the whole way, hanging on her every movement, feeling his way across the mattress until he's kneeling between her knees.

"Well?" Minerva's hand in his hair is just the right side of too tight, the pressure that guides him down towards her is firm and absolutely inescapable. "Go on, my love. Show them how skilled you are."

Duck follows the press of her hand, bows down until his face is right up between her legs. He breathes in the scent of her, different than anything else in this world, sharp and earthy and _right_ , and he presses a line of nearly-chaste kisses to the inside of her thigh, chasing the line of blue markings he can't see but knows are there.

Minerva makes a delighted noise and caresses his hair. "You can see that he is eager to please." She announces to the pretend watchers, and Duck feels electric heat pulse along his spine at their imagined eyes on his back.

He navigates by feel until he finds the waistband of her underwear and shimmies them down over the soft swell of her hips and the long, powerful lines of her legs. He pulls them loose from her ankles and only God knows where they land after that, because Duck's too busy kissing his way back up to care, sprawling on his belly so has better access to her.

Minerva’s breath catches as he touches her with the tip of his tongue, licks her open with long, slow strokes like he knows she likes. Her hands are in his hair and on his shoulders, touching and taking off again like restless birds.

“Ah, my love.” She practically melts under his hands as he hooks one arm under her leg and pushes himself in closer, like he can get lost in her body if he tries hard enough. 

“You are so beautiful like this, Wayne,” She murmurs, words catching a little on the edges of the movement of his tongue as he works it against her. Her body’s different from the few human women he’s been with, but he's studied it by now, knows all the places she likes to be touched and licked and grazed gently with his teeth. He’ll never get tired of this, feeling how she softens and shivers when he’s gentle with her; it makes him want to lavish attention on her for the rest of her presumably very long life. 

"Beautiful," Minerva sighs, hips rocking slightly up to meet him, "So good, so incredibly good to me. If you could see how they are looking at you right now . . ."

He actually gasps into her, caught off guard by the mule-kick shot of arousal from the words, and he pulls back long enough to breathlessly say " . . . tell me."

He can hear her grin as she rests her hand on the back of his neck and squeezes gently. "They are transfixed. Unable to look away from this spectacle. They are envious, Wayne Newton." She says, so low and charged that it makes his stomach flip.

He leans forward and plants a long, slow kiss just above her entrance. "Hell, they'd be nuts not to be," he says sincerely. "Luckiest guy in the world, right here."

Minerva half-laughs and half-sighs as he slips a finger into her and curls it _just so_. "It is me they envy, my love," She says, shuddering as he adds another finger and works them deep inside, matching the rhythm with his tongue. "I can see them wishing they were in my place, wishing they could -- _ah_ \-- could have you for themselves."

Duck lets out a high-pitched noise that's definitely probably technically a whine, and she cups the side of his head and sinks her fingers into his hair. "Yes, beloved." She pants, "They want to touch you like this. To have you, your perfect mouth, your perfect hands . . ."

Her voice drops off as she gets lost in sensation. Duck can't help but feel a little bit smug at that. Christ, he loves having her like this, knowing that for the time being he's succeeded in making all her cares and tensions absolutely vanish, that he can take those things away and replace them with nothing but feeling good.

Minerva thrusts her hips up to meet him and makes what Duck's come to think of as _the Sound_ , the one she only ever makes when she's coming, the one he's never heard come out of any human throat. It's a low, liquid trill, almost but not quite a bird's song, wild and alien and holy. It's his favorite goddamned sound in the world.

He draws his fingers out of her, lifts his face towards hers as he sucks the taste of her off them. Minerva shudders and catches her hand in his hair before he can lower his mouth back to her again. Sometimes he can get her to make _the Sound_ two or three times in a row before she needs him to lay off.

“You are so good to me, husband.” She says, and Duck’s chest fills up with a warm sensation like a balloon inflating against his ribcage. “But I would be cheating our audience if I did not let them see the rest of you.” 

_Fuck._ Duck drops his forehead down against the firm muscle of her thigh, takes a shuddering breath. “You’re killin’ me, honey,” He mumbles, and Minerva laughs and runs her palm down the plane of muscle along his spine. 

“On the contrary, Wayne Newton.” She takes hold of him and flips him over on his back with a single, sudden movement that is absolutely heart-stopping in its casual fluidity, and there’s maybe something wrong with him being _extremely fucking turned on_ by the fact that his wife could destroy him if she wanted to, but if there is then Duck doesn’t wanna be right. 

Minerva straddles his thighs and bends down to delve into his mouth with her tongue, kissing him until he’s breathless and slack-jawed. He runs his hands over her sides and back and chest, cups her breasts through the thin fabric of her bra. Minerva works her way down his body, planting kisses as she goes, stopping to lave the scars under his pecs with her tongue for a long moment. 

“You can all see his beautiful skin, yes?” She says, drawing her hands down to the button on his jeans. “And the definition of his musculature? Is he not the most gorgeous thing you have ever beheld?” 

She shifts off his legs so she can slide his jeans and boxers off of him in one long motion, leaving him totally bare. Duck pictures the audience craning their necks, eyes on him, on _all_ of him, and if the heat of his skin is anything to go by he must be flushed red _everywhere_. He shivers, torn between wanting to disappear into the mattress underneath him and wanting to arc his spine up and show himself off. 

Minerva doesn’t give him a choice. She presses her palms against the insides of his knees and pushes gently, spreading his legs until he’s exposed and open and fuck, oh, fuck, he’s so fucking _into this_ , into her making sure everyone can see all of him despite what his embarrasment impulse might say.

“Look at that,” She says, and her voice is fucking _reverent_ as she traces her fingertips up his inner thighs and almost-but-not-quite touches his hole. Duck squirms and pants under the contact, damn near ready to beg for her to touch him.

Minerva kisses the soft place just above his knee and runs her palms back down his legs, away from where he really wants her, and Duck makes a noise that is _absolutely_ whining, bucking his hips a little. 

“C’mon, Min, don’t fuckin’ tease me in front of all these folks,” He pants, and she has the audacity to _laugh_ at him, because she’s _the worst_.

“But my darling,” She says, hands roaming all over his hips and thighs and stroking his belly and his cock is _right there goddamn it_ , “How else am I to show them how responsive you are to my touch?”

“If I’da known you were so fuckin’ _mean_ I wouldn’t’ve married you,” He gasps, as she just barely grazes his dick with one fingertip that she immediately traces away across his hip.

“Untrue.” Minerva replies smugly. Her hands move away for what is probably one of the top ten worst half-minutes of his life, and he hears a bottle uncapping. Minerva hums tunelessly under her breath and he’s so fuckin’ in love with her but also, he really wishes she’d hurry the fuck up before he spontanteously combusts. 

He thinks about touching himself (oh, fuck, touching himself in front of all these people) and actually moves one hand to do it, but she swats his wrist away lightly. “Another time, perhaps, Wayne Newton.” She says authoritatively, and he groans. 

At fuckin’ _last_ her hands come back, one smoothing over his lower belly while another, slicked with lube, traces ghost touches over his cock. Duck drops his head back against the mattress, practically shaking. 

She slides a single finger into him with an agonizingly slow movement, tearing an incomprehensible noise out of his throat as she strokes the pad of her finger inside him. Sparks of sensation burst and skitter along his groin, shoot right up his dick, it’s so good but it makes him hungry for _more more more_ , and he sucks in a huge breath and grinds himself down hard on her finger. 

“Is this good for you, Wayne Newton?” She says lightly, pushing down against his hip so he can’t get the motion he wants. “Do you think our audience is enjoying it, too?” 

Duck twitches his hips under her hand, rocks in time with the movement of that finger as much as he can with her holding him like this. “If they ain’t,” He says, his voice gone thick and breathless with needing, “They’re a buncha goddamned idiots.” 

Minerva must like that answer because she slides another finger in to join the first, still not enough to fill him like he wants her to fill him but _so good_ anyway that it makes him literally see stars. He moans her name, a long drawn-out sound of pure adoration. 

“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” She says, crooking her hand so she can rub against the base of his dick while she fucks into him with her fingers. Duck thrusts up against her and he makes a strangled noise.

“Look at his face,” Minerva continues, fucking him slow and steady, still controlling how much he can move with her other hand against his hip. “How he loses himself in being pleasured. How easy it is to see his need and desire. How honest his expressions are, and how pure.” 

Minerva sinks another finger into him, still working the heel of her palm against his dick while she thrusts her fingers, and the stretch is perfect but the angle keeps it shallow, it’s so fucking much and not quite enough and he's absolutely helpless in her hands.

"Please, Minnie, please, honey, please please please . . ." He pictures faces watching him beg her for more, damn near chokes from how much he _wants_ them to bear witness to her taking him apart.

“I wonder how long I could keep him like this.” She muses, and he can almost see her turning her head to speak casually over her shoulder to the crowd. “It would be a shame to rush a work of art, would it not?” 

Duck gasps, chokes on an exhale that turns into a long, drawn-out, needy whine. God, if she did decide to keep him like this, string him along for minutes or hours without coming, let them see how totally she can control him . . . he’s already wrung out with need, breathless and begging, how much more wrecked could he get?

"Another time, I think," Minerva says benevolently. She leans forward to plant a line of kisses up along his belly and chest, bites down gently on the top of his shoulder.

Then she leans back and shifts her grip so she’s stroking him with one hand and pressing deeper into him with the other, and Duck groans and throws his head back, bucking his hips in time with her movements now that she no longer has him pinned. 

She thrusts into him deep, deep, and he rocks down against it at the same moment without conscious timing, as if they're two pieces of the same machine made to work in tandem. It’s like sparring or dancing, he thinks deliriously, how they give and take against each other and she’s so far out of his goddamned league in so many things but this, this is different, they match each other so perfectly in this that they might’s well have been designed for it. 

"Do you want to climax in front of all these people, my love?" She rumbles, and the question smashes through him like the impact of a goddamned truck, answered as he slams his hips forward against her touch and shakes completely to pieces. He thinks he might say her name somewhere in the long, garbled, utterly undone noise he makes as he comes.

She fucks him through it, murmuring praise that he can only catch as vague impressions rather than words. When he sighs and shudders back down against the mattress she reaches up to tug the blindfold off, and it pulls free just in time for her to lock eyes with him while she's licking him off of her fingers, slow and methodical.

Duck chokes out a breathless laugh, grabs her smooth, perfect head between his palms and pulls her up to kiss him, getting slightly squashed in the process.

"Fuck," He says shakily, pulling away so he can rest his forehead against hers, "Fuckin' . . . fuck."

"Yes." Minerva agrees, reaching up to clasp one of his hands with her own, turning her head to kiss a line down the tender skin of his inner wrist and forearm. She's pushed herself up with the other arm so as not to actually crush him, although if she did Duck's reasonably certain he would die a happy man.

Duck reaches up, fumbling, still a little blissed out, and tugs her down until she's laying half-sprawled across him, head on his shoulder, leg thrown over his legs, her arm and shoulder pinning his chest down against the bed. "Was it good for you, honey?" He turns, nuzzles his cheek against the bare, impossibly soft skin of her scalp.

"Mmm." Minerva tilts her chin until she can reach to press her lips against the side of his neck, sucks hard enough to leave a hickey blooming there when she pulls away. "How could it not have been?" 

Duck grins drunkenly, nudges her legs a little with his hip. It does nothing to dislodge her weight from on top of him. "You can't answer a question with another question."

She laughs at him, which is what he wanted to happen, and consolidates her position pinning him down against their mattress. "Yes, husband, " She says, nosing against the skin of his neck as one of her hands starts a slow journey down along his side to the soft fat around his hips. "It was extremely pleasant. For a first time," She adds, rubbing a slow circle into the hollow of his hip with her thumb.

"First time, huh?" He says, wrapping one arm tight around her shoulders while the other hand teases open the closure of her bra.

"Obviously, Wayne Newton," she replies, kissing the junction of his neck and shoulder. "Do you think that anyone would watch such a thing once and not demand a repeat performance?"

Duck smirks, sliding his hands up under the straps and pulling the bra free from her shoulders. "Can't argue with that."

He teases the garment out from between them and tosses it haphazardly off into a corner, settling his hands on her hips and drawing his leg up until it's it's snug between the cleft of her thighs.

"Okay, darlin'," he says, canting his hips up against her, "Let's give 'em a show."


End file.
